A/N: Yeah, I went there. Someone had to do it first. Wish I could feel a little bad about it too, but I don't.
It's about a million kinds of wrong (and even that might be underselling it). He doesn't have the buffer of alcohol as an excuse now, either. He's found his hands straying for a bottle about a hundred times a day recently, manages to force himself to reach for the coffee pot instead; as a result gets horrendously wired and then can't stop his mind from whirling over forbidden thoughts anyway. Back into the vicious circle he goes.
She's young. She's so young. The same age as his son.
For pity's sake. She's his son's ex-girlfriend.
There's nothing about the situation that isn't completely fucked up. And yet, he can't stop the thoughts.
Can't stop staring at her whenever she enters the grill, eyes straying to her without his permission. And she is radiant. Perfect. Unsullied by age, disappointment, fear.
So like Amelia, in a way that Cassie will never be, tainted as she is by the Blackwell bloodline.
Amelia.
Another that he could never have.
He really needs to stop doing this to himself, reaching for the unattainable goal. It only leads to darker places than he has any desire to go again.
So he contents himself with watching, ignores the warmth that spreads through him at the sight, ignores the dreams, the constant mantra of 'she'ssoyoungshe'ssoyoungshe'ssoyoung' in his head.
Ignores the fondness in her expression as she looks at him. The unguarded emotions on her face, that age hasn't taught her yet to hide. The way her eyes linger on him and he strangely can't quite tell why.
It can't be anything other than innocent concern. Perhaps a little distrust in the fact that he's given up on alcohol.
It can't be any more than that.
It can't.
